More Things I Hate

I hate the song Hallelujah. It sucks and it’s boring.

I hate Bridgerton. It’s poorly written boring garbage.

I like the film on pudding, tapioca and soup. Women want to mush it and stir it. Fuck off! I want my film!

I hate fruit salad. Who mixes delicious fruit into a sour congealed mass?

Don’t stir the sauce into the pasta. This is not summer camp. I don’t need stupid mommies stirring my pasta. Fuck off.

I hate Billy Joel. He sucks.

I hate the Williams sisters. I don’t care if you like them.

I love Tiger Woods. His ex-wife was a twat.

I hate füssßball. It’s for smarmy Europeans and emaciated heroin Euroweenie retards.

I hate Millennials. Lazy, useless, entitled opinionated man cunts.

I hate two-factor authentication. It doesn’t stop hacks and only fat neckbeards like it.

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I hate Star Wars.

I hate people who say ’canonical’.

I hate Batman.

I hate superheroes.

I hate soccer. It’s as boring as watching what grow.

Don’t try to convince me that something I hate is good. It isn’t. It sucks and your suck. Shut up.

Shove your downvote in your stretched-out spermatozoa-soaked, man-anus.

Suchi tastes like dogshit-death-Hitler vomit-Satan. No-one likes it, you lying hipster scum.

I hate meetings. No, I’m not listening.

I hate reality TV.

I hate flying.

People who don’t like train travel can eat thick meaty rancid steaming dogshit. Fuck you and fuck your opinion.

I hate snitches. Keep your fucking rat mouth shut.

Self-driving cars are stupid.

Fast food delivery is pathetic it’s Wall-e with a FUPA.

Mayhem in America! Highest Powerlift Total in Years! Boris Shocked! Biden Mute!

“It’s amazing what you can do in the gym if you aren’t in terrific pain. Just last year I could only do two sets of quarter squats. Now I can do 16-12-10-8-6-5-3-3, 8 sets of squats below parallel.”

I shroake blissfully whilst I performed squats.

“Waah, waah, waah! Terrific pain! No-one cares about your pain! Look at my titties! They’re perfect, you misshapen stupid freak! Taste them! Do you like what you doth see, earthman? Are you even a half-man?”

Shroake the No-one cares lady unzipping her warmup jacket and shoving her glistening firm breasts in my face hairy hideous demonic green-glowing visage.

I decided that it was time to work out.

“I prefer to start my workouts at 9:00PM. Only bizarre self-constructed freakish ’morning people’ get up and work out at 5:00 AM. Who feels good at 5AM?”

Shroake Big Chief Guyasuta

I continued my workout:

Barbell Calf Raise 16-12-10

Deadlift 3-3-3-3-1

York Health Shoes Single Leg Curl 16

45 Degree Leg Press 16

45 Degree Calf Raises 24

Leg Extensions 12

Leg Curls 12

“This post is hot 🥵 garbage 🗑 Im headed to the kitchen.”

Shroake The Swole Bro 😎

Iced Mocha with nutmeg?

Peace be the Botendaddy

Botendaddy on Architecture: Brutalism Revisited

Willkommen Mengen Geehrter Fraueng und Häärungen! The term ‘Brutalismus’ clearly derives/derives clearly (No-one knows that rule) from the ‘Brutalist’ (from zur française ´brute’ meaning raw) genre (Pronounced Jaaaah) of Mies Van der Rohe and Walter Gropius wherein we see many hideous works of Architecture. Brutalism began to fall out of favor in the 1980’s,

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Es wären einen Visionären für einen neues Zwanziger Jahrhunderte!

The Brutalist shroake of ‘building as machine’, exemplified by the 1913 Fagus (Pronounced Phaa-Güß) Fabrikwerken exposing the inner workings of the building cum exoskeleton as a bold new Expressionist Art (Ausdruckkunst) and of course the Deutsche Bauhaus School of architecture.

Photo by SevenStorm JUHASZIMRUS on Pexels.com

Die Kritiker who once idolized the utilitarian artistry of the late machine-age, later viewed Brutalism as an excuse for municipalities to employ cheap tacky materials and low-cost unornamented construction techniques in public works.

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In essence, Brutalism’s death knell were the ugly sozialistische municipal flat blocks, Amerikanischer College Campuses and the pièce de résistance, the hideous Amerikanischen multi-purpose stadiums ala the soulless Robert Moses and his neue Kollektivverträge Kunst Gesellschaft.

Brutalism has evolved or mutated into more ornamented or complex designs, sustained perhaps by restrictions on cost imposed by talentless mindless municipal drones who can’t possibly comprehend art 🖼.

Ganze gut 😊, nichts?

Real History as Told by Dr. Yum

Back in the halcyon days of yesteryear amongst the delightful gossip, ecstatic shame and euphemism, President Buchanan, always dashing, the 15th President of the low-couture, immer vulgäre und so sexy! manly Cowboy United States was an extremely tasty homosexuell.

Photo by Aaron Kittredge on Pexels.com

He lived with the Senator from Alabama (lick) in a yummy open man-on-man relationship for 23 years. Buchanan’s niece took on the title of First Lady as she handled protocol at the White House. She made that run-down dump pop! with high fashion galas and an A-List crowd of Prinzessin und Paparazzi.

Buchanan and Senator Rufus King (hardbodied Southern Gentry) both always looking simply fantastic in basic black tuxes, were known derisively by the ghastly hideous dinosaurs in the press (so tacky) as ‘Miss Nancy’ and her friend ‘Miss Nancy’.

The (heiß Schwimmer körperlich) Buchanan did not run for re-election thanks to the icky Cis-gendered massive prodigious Abraham Lincoln (so hot) who had no sense of taste and like the reader, never lived to be old as he looked. The ladies (if you like that sort of thing) flocked to him, whilst Buchanan was a contemporary of that delicious old (schönen Blauen Augen) silver fox grandpa Walt Whitman who was known to keep company with cruel muscularo stevedores and other (oh god yes) hulking bears.

Stick around for more, girls! This place is about to Pop!

“Franz Helmüt von Mummenschanz reporting from Washington (so gross) for Kanal Acht Argentina for the Extrême English Broadcasting Company on fashion and history.”

Abenteuer eines Shroakebeutels und anderen Geschichten: Szene Zwei

„Was fur ein guten schi 🎿 Tag! Dass Schnee ❄️ ist ganz schön 🤩! Wissen sie was ich sagen meiner guten Freundin?“

Hatte Slava denn fast geSchroaken gewesen

„Nicht so schlimme, meinen lieben Freunden! Wir sind ganz gut Skifahren ⛷, dass ist ja unglaublich 😻!“

Also Schroake Moishe

„Dieser Schnee ist wirklich gut zum schnellen Skifahren! Diese wunderschönen alpinen Hänge sind großartig! Schauen Sie, die Mädchen sind uns voraus! Lass uns das nachholen!“

Schroake Franz

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Als die Skifahrer den Berg hinunterrasten, Moishe Shroake: „Wir kennen nicht einmal die Namen des anderen! Mein Name ist Moishe! Ich habe einen blauen Hut! Und, welche Farbe Hut 🎩 hatten Sie denn? Verstehen?“

„Mein Name ist Franz! Ich habe einen gelben Hut!“

„Mein Name ist Slava! Ich habe einen grünen Hut!“

Die drei Männer holten die Mädchen ein, als Kiefern und Heuballen in einer fauvenfarbenen Landschaft alpiner Schönheit in Schattierungen von Dunkelgrün, Hellbraun und Weiß vorbeiflogen.

“Oh, das ist das idiotische Trottel-Trio! Der Letzte im Hofbräuhaus kauft Bier, Brezeln und Würstchen!”

Shroake das größte blonde unhöflichste Mädchens.

“Kommt schon Jungs! geben wir unser Bestes! Ich denke, wir können diese Mädchen schlagen, aber sie scheinen ziemlich gute Skifahrerinnen zu sein! Ich dachte, ich sei eine anständige Skifahrerin, nicht die beste, aber diese Mädchen haben uns übel geschlagen – sie müssen aus Schweden oder vielleicht Norwegen sein! Sie sind auf jeden Fall sehr blond und groß und sie sind alle sehr gute Skifahrer.“

Schrei Franz

“Sie scheinen ziemlich entzückende junge Damen zu sein, es wäre am charmantesten, ein bisschen Bier zu trinken und ein paar Brezeln und Würstchen mit ihnen zu essen!”

Shroake Moishe

Der kleine Alpenzug fuhr 1000 Fuß tiefer auf einem einzigen Gleis mit seinem unverwechselbaren österreichischen Pfeifen vorbei. Die Männer rannten so schnell sie konnten. Schließlich erreichten sie die große Kurve am Fuß des Berges.

Als sie den Mädchen zuriefen, blickten sie alle zurück und die Männer nutzten den Moment und rasten zum Sieg vorbei. Dann hielten sie alle am Fuß des Berges neben dem Hofbräuhaus an.

„Also, die Männer gewinnen, die Frauen müssen kaufen!“

Shroake Slava

“Sag mal!

Lassen Sie uns einen guten Tisch finden! Da außer uns noch niemand hier ist, sollten wir uns einen tollen Ort suchen, um Bier zu trinken und Brezeln und Würste zu essen!”

Shroake Franz

„Kommt, Jungs! Mal sehen, ob ihr mit den Mädels mithalten könnt! In Norwegen haben wir die Tradition, die Jungs unter den Tisch zu trinken! Shroake Ingrid, groß und blond.“

Abenteuer eines Shroakebeutels und anderen Geschichten Szene Eins

Gibt es hier eine neuer Buch vom unserer berühmtesten Schreiber 🖊 Häär Doktor Doktor Botendaddy.

Die Szene: 1955 Bundesrepublik Deutschland. Skiunterricht am Fuße der Garmisch-Partenkirche. Drei einsame Gestalten stehen leicht abgesetzt von einer größeren Gruppe.

Photo by eberhard grossgasteiger on Pexels.com

Es ist März. Überall liegen tiefe Schneedecken, aber es ist fast 30 Grad Fahrenheit warm. Keiner der drei Männer kennt sich.

Einer ist Slava Vasily Biletnikov, geboren in St. Petersburg, ein ehemaliger sowjetischer Soldat im Großen Vaterländischen Krieg gegen den unkontrollierten Faschismus.

Der andere Mann ist Moishe Ben-Yehuda Tennboim, geboren in München, ein Holocaust-Überlebender.

Der andere Mann ist der in Nürnberg geborene Franz von Schiffenbauer, ein ehemaliger Wehrmachtsleutnant.

Dies ist eine Geschichte von drei Rucksäcken, die drei sehr unterschiedlichen Männern und ihren Reisen und Abenteuern quer durch Europa gehören.

Das ist Abentueur eines Shroakebeutels von einem der beliebtesten Schriftsteller Bayerns.

Jetzt ein großer Kinofilm, der normalerweise von Scheißköpfen in Hollywood ruiniert wird.

„Das Ziel beim Skifahren ist, eins mit dem Berg zu werden. Den Berg zu spüren.

Sie drei wurden beiseite geschoben, weil Sie sehr beschissene Skifahrer zu sein scheinen.

Sie sind wahrscheinlich hierher gekommen, um heiße Mädchen mit riesigen Brüsten abzuholen oder sexy junge Männer mit leckeren, bauchigen Hintern zu verletzen. Ah, der Geschmack!

So Shroake Otto der Österreicher.

Drei junge Frauen in der Gruppe kicherten.

„Ihr drei seht aus wie Vollidioten. Wie vollgeschissene Clowns, deren Hirn mit Kot gefüllt ist. Wir lachen über eure peinliche Dummheit! Ihr widert uns an! Lasst uns nach dem Unterricht Bier und Wurst holen!

Shroake eine große blonde Norwegerin namens Susie,

Die Schar von Ottos Schülern machte sich auf den Weg zum ersten Lauf auf den Berg.

Diese Frauen hassen uns. Es ist offensichtlich, dass wir bizarre selbstgebaute Freaks sind.

Shroake Slava.

“Das ist wahr, wir erscheinen wie schäumende Idioten.”

Schrei Franz

„Wir leben, genießen einen schönen Tag und drei unausstehliche Frauen wollen, dass wir mit ihnen Bier und Wurst trinken. Wir können nicht verlieren, meine Freunde!“

Szene

The final days of Colonel Malhotra

0600 Ft. Franklin, Manhattan, New York April 29, 1973, Building 301-7. Day One of Command.

The dilapidated Revolutionary War Base at 37th Street and the East River is on the closing list to make way for the grossly incompetent but charming former Mayor Lindsey’s ’Port 2000’ Project. The City was teetering on the edge of disaster and crime was out of control.

Photo by Graphicgum.com on Pexels.com

Colonel Zarley Merlin Malhotra sat behind his desk. He was Commander of Group 107. The mission of the group was a re-focus on the Cold War after the close of the Vietnam War.

The new goal was to direct the Army towards new systems, force structures and plans to veer towards Europe and pick up where America had left off a decade before.

The mission of the group was a retrenchment after the close of the Vietnam War to direct towards new systems and plans to veer towards Europe and pick up on the Cold War where America had left off a decade before.

His executive officer, Lieutenant Colonel Harley O’ Flaugherty (Pronounced Flock-air-tea) Flynn sat on the couch in the old wood-paneled luxurious office across from the commander’s desk. The wall is adorned with ancient pictures, photographs and medals of commanders of yore.

A shitty black and white TV with random vhold, is playing the Popeil pocket fisherman commercial and then the Carvel ice cream ad with the gravelly voiced guy.

They had just returned from a run through the filthy, labyrinth streets of the East Side of Manhattan festooned with bums, dope dealers, criminals, pimps, hookers, artists, poets, Hot Chestnut stands, rapists, murderers, newsstands, ex-hippies, addicts, dykes, fairies, freaks, hairies and politicians.

The aging officers were dressed in gray Army PT sweats.

Flynn was leafing through the Daily News and roaking an illegal Cuban Cigar.

“How can we be so goddamned important and now we are discarded useless buffoons at the twilight of a mediocre career?”

Shroake Malhotra

“Speak for yourself, you anus… Sir. Every story has an ending.”

“I may have fired the first shots of World War II, I was talking with my friend 2LT Brad Smythe blue-blood kid from Rhode Island.

We were standing at his AA Battery when the Zeros came in he was killed instantly. I got on the gun and I fired back. I didn’t hit a goddamned thing. I was hit in the thigh. In the great scheme of things, it was totally forgotten.”

Shroake Malhotra whilst taking off his Pro-Keds.

“It was a big war. We were just minor players. 16 million men and women in uniform. Who the fuck are you? Just another stupid dope from the Bronx, a meaningless Military Intelligence Officer, with delusions of grandeur. We were never important, we just got to play a little part, Sir!”

Shroake Flynn, taking off his boots and lying down on the couch stretched out like a mangy panther.

“So our mission is two-fold. One is to shut down this unit. The other is {TSSCI CAVEAT IX CLASSIFIED NOFORN EXTREME TOP SECRET REDACTED OPLAN VII per US CODE CFR 137 Section 41 stroke 895(a) subsection iii} We can’t even dicuss it here.” (Hands Flynn a slip of paper).

Shroake Malhotra

Photo by Tobias Bju00f8rkli on Pexels.com

Cut to Liberty Island Ferry. Two ‘lone’ figures in civilian clothes ala Swiss tourists in sweaters and knit hats are on the upper deck in the gloaming swirl of cold mist with Manhattan looming in the background.

“We’re gonna go see ‘Death by Comfort Sheep’ tonight – it’s in this new punk bar called DCHC on the West Side.”

Shroake Flynn

“Aren’t we a little old for that?”

Shroake Malhotra

“Does it really matter at this point? We are on terminal assignment with a skeleton crew, on a terminal mission as a base thats going to be closed at the end of our tenure. as long as we don’t commit murder no-one will have any idea what we do, nor will they care. We are the forgotten. We are off the radar.”

Shroake Flynn as they headed to the showers.

Typical Shitty Hollywood Origin Story – Chapter (Negative) XII: The King Garbage Bolean Arises!


We’renottoojewish Studios Glendale, California (Pronounced Klay-Phore-Knee-Yah!) Office of Producer Schloimo Boingboomtschak famous Ethiopian-Jewish Hollywood guy. Botendaddy is giving a presentation like a shitty Ted Talk.

“Starring every shitty actor you’ve never heard of including a (hopefully 🙏 unarmed) Balec Aaldwin. It’s a story about the sensitive side of a genocidal psychopathic militaristic jingoistic interstellar maniac!”

Shroake the Botendaddy

“Have a nice Bagel Lox and Cream (Pronounced Krim Cheese 🧀!) the kids love interstellar Genocide!”

Shroake Schloimo

Scene: Bridge of a typical bullshit Hollywood starship. Camera rotates around a lone figure observing the view screen 📺 it is a young King Garbage Bolean an ensign in the fleet of the Zolean unity he is wearing the Zolean green, white and black uniform representing the Boleans, Holeans and Qoleans his skin is jet black. His eyes are white with a pure silver iris.

“Attention Qommander on deck!”

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Shroake Lefftenant Gzcyiaiek (Unpronounceable by shitty earthlings) standing at full Extrême attention. All other officers and shitty underlings stand at attention as weird lights go on and off around the bridge.

“I introduce the newest Ensign on the fleet! He shall be assistant weapons officer on Gärbagr Skåu 1, this being our newest ship build by Fågus Faktorie IV Schiffwerkenmännscahftpanzerkampwagenschtein ™️ on Qolea Sea City North Shore port. He is the son of the KGB! He is Prince Qufu of Böl City! But he is now a Zolean Astral (see how I did that?) officer. He must undergo the Shroaking!”

Shroake Commodore Ha’aq-Ptooey! a green skinned Qolean Officer.

“The Shroaking is hazing! It is Extrême hazing! All softness and weakness is removed! Forget that he is a Prince! He is a Zolean Officer first! Long Live the Zolean unity!”

Shroake Lefftenant Commander Q’Laaapear the Qolean Deck Operations Officer and top graduate of the Bolean University of War Science and baking.

“A’al Mog K’KGB!

Uareu, Iammee!

Barto n’y’a yuv-yayzoo

Nyezna’yoo Pochemu!”

Shroake the command deck crew in unison whilst chanting the ancient oath of the Zolean unity. The weird white-skinned robed (Pronounced row-bed) priest is shaking a psalter.

“Take us out! Lefftenant Q’aalmaer Klaatu!”

Shroake Captain (O-6) Balthazaar Kigibwah (Pronounced Keegee Bwaaaah) Prince of polar-iced Bolean Qontinent Q’Blau.

The poor CGI special effects spaceship heads out to patrol the Gryzwacz Galaxy on alert for shitty alien Kapitalists seeking to exploit, rape and kill and above all merchandise.

Extrême Historical Facts

The Tower of London is only 12 feet high.

Napoleon was only three inches tall.

Hitler was literally Hitler.

Jimmy Hoffa is buried in Grant’s Tomb.

The Titanic was not sunk by an iceberg. It was sunk by Hitler.

Andy Warhol was perfectly normal.

All two snowflakes are alike.

WaLuigi is evil but ineffective.

The Flintstones are not a modern stone age family, they are more neolithic.

Women don’t really like massive, juicy, turgid, rock-hard, prodigious cocks, they prefer tiny limp liver-spot covered dead phalii.

Bailey’s is not a gay drink…

Dennis Rodman is an alien.

Elvis is alive.

‘3’

The moon landings were faked… by Hitler.

Shakespeare’s plays were written by Waluigi.

The leaning Tower of Pisa is straight, Pisa is leaning.

The St. Louis Cardinals Pitcher Wally ’The Chief’ Luigi had no arms, no legs and was blind, but he pitched a no-hitter against the Pirates in 1935.

Cornell was accidentally given 147 extra fifth downs to defeat Dartmouth in 1935.

No Non-European has ever won a game of fooseball/fußball against a faggy, smarmy, smug European.

Klaatu was actually the Beatles.

Paul is still dead, man.

Every famous historical figure was a lesbian.

Photo by Anna Shvets on Pexels.com

Issac Newton was a lesbian.

Hitler was two lesbians.

Napoleon was a lesbian.

Benjamin Franklin invented electricity.

The Americans arrived in World War I on November 11th, 1918 at 11:10 AM. They only participated in 37 seconds of the war. The only casualty was a pigeon named Pecos Pete.

Every US President was gay.

Things I Don’t Care About – Starting with the Super Bowl

I don’t care about the Super Bowl nor the NBA except for the 76ers.

Boba Fett

Vampires

Cooking Shows

Reality TV

Princess Diana had no business being a princess. She wasn’t up for the job. Being a head of state means you give up a lot. She wasn’t willing to do so. Stop making these goddamned boring movies about her. I don’t care. I don’t care about her shitty boyfriend or her shitty drunken French driver or the Paparazzi. Who cares. Her story is boring as fuck.

Photo by Laura C on Pexels.com

Robin Hood. Another stupid story no one cares about. Only Mel Brooks got it right. No more goddamned Robin Hood movies.

Winnie the Pooh. Only good for selling Teddy bears to one year olds. The actual stories are dull and witless.

Peter Pan. No one likes this story. No one ever. It teaches kids to jump out of windows. It’s boring and stupid. Hollywood loves it. Everyone else hates it.

Curious George. Maybe it was interesting for five minutes in 1948.

I don’t want to hear about your home improvement. Are you actually dead? Do something interesting for god’s sake! Have you ever kissed a girl? Have you climbed a mountain? No you redid your kitchen. Fuck your kitchen and fuck you.

I don’t care about your goddamned car. I don’t know what T-Tops are. I don’t care. Shut up.

I don’t care about your stupid kids or their soccer game. Do your kids box or play ice hockey? That’s interesting.

I don’t care about your addiction. It’s a self-inflicted wound. Everyone tried to help. Fuck you. It’s your fault. You are a bad person.

Politics. Shut up. I don’t care. Get a life. Fuck you and your cause. i am a nihilist.

Fellow Veterans. Fuck your bigger and better game. Here’s mine. I was in the 1st Cavalry Division in the War. So fuck off. Also, we don’t support each other enough – we are all shitty hypocrites.

Your shitty snowboarding. It’s skateboard on snow. Fuck off you twat. Only ice skating and hockey are real.

Fuck your MBA and Finance degree. You should not be in charge of scientists. Do you know what f=ma means? What is a parallax? What is oxygen uptake? Then fuck off or get a real education, you preening nattering twat!

Fuck morning people. Enjoy your 4AM. I’m going to sleep.

I don’t listen because you are boring the fuck out of me. Your lectures and presentations are mindless horseshit.

I despise hot weather and hot climates. Enjoy your beachy RonJon shit whatever the fuck that is. I’ll be in the mountains in the far north in the ecstasy of the delicious cold. Stop telling me about your goddamn beach trips! I don’t care.

I don’t care about your illnesses, your fake sleep apnea and your fake gluten thing. Shut up. I don’t care.